Such Intrusions
by speck211
Summary: Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his...
1. Chapter 1

**Well this is my attempt at a Sherlock fic. It feels so clumsy and awkward and honestly I'm not entirely happy with it but I'm doing it anyway. Obviously the writers, if they even ever do introduce the Sherlock character to romance (which seems unlikely, and if so the love interest will probably only exist for one episode), they will be able to do it in a far more sophisticated way than I've done. But that's what makes them the writers I suppose. Anyway, I'm putting far too much pressure on myself for a simple fic. Hope you enjoy!**

**I disclaim the world of Sherlock Holmes, including Sherlock Holmes himself and the characters John Watson and Molly Hooper.**

XXXXXX

_But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his._ - A Scandal in Bohemia

"You know, Sherlock, this is my weekend off. It's six o'clock in the bloody morning." Molly said, trying to keep her tone pleasant.

Truthfully, receiving Holmes' message to meet him at St. Bart's before the sun had even considered rising had, rather than thrill her the way a text from the detective normally might, instead made her feel somewhat bitter towards him. She wasn't sure what exactly was grating at her. It had faded a touch when she'd entered her lab and seen the gash on his left temple, but returned with a vengeance when she realized he wasn't badly injured.

"I knew you'd be awake eventually." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "You're always an early riser."

Molly paused in her actions of disinfecting his wound.

"How-...Lord, why do I even ask?" She sighed, resuming her ablutions with a shake of her head. "You still should've gone to Emerge. They're far better equipped to assess you than I am."

Sherlock made a face at the suggestion, looking over her shoulder.

"They would ask too many...uncomfortable questions. Besides," he gave his best attempt at a coy grin, "I wanted to make sure it was done right. I trust you more than any emergency room doctor."

"Don't." There was more force behind the word than she intended. Molly stilled again, taking a breath to steel herself. "Just...please, it's too early in the morning." She gave him a weak smile.

"Have I said something wrong?"

It was an odd sight, seeing genuine confusion on his face (that is to say as much as Sherlock could express any emotion genuinely). Molly never had done before. Of course she'd never before called him out on this game he played, either. But this time she couldn't help herself. It really was too early in the morning. She simply didn't have the energy to pretend that it was okay for him to be toying with her, to delude herself into believing that one day he might actually mean the words he fed her.

They stared at one another now, Sherlock no doubt trying to deduce from everything at his visual disposal how he could have possibly made an error and Molly having become, as she often did, mesmerized by his eyes. Her hand remained motionless, lightly resting at his forehead.

Sherlock had the most unrelenting, unfaltering, _unnerving_ gaze she'd ever witnessed. She supposed it had something to do with his intellectual prowess. When he was trying to determine how best to attack a problem (which, in the case of their relationship was usually what flirtatious approach would most quickly and effectively persuade her to do what he needed) it seemed his brain couldn't be bothered with such mundane functions as movement and blinking and such. Molly never failed to be rendered speechless by his eyes. They were pale but piercing, ceaselessly analyzing everything about her and not, she felt, in a good way. They left her so she could do little else than giggle and nod during their interactions. She desperately wanted to loathe him for it.

"Molly?" Sherlock spoke gently.

"Yes?" She breathed.

"I thought you might be having a seizure."

The absurdity of his statement broke the spell quite nicely. Molly dropped her hand and moved away.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm fine."

She looked at her feet and couldn't help but emit a small laugh despite herself. Sherlock continued to appear perplexed.

"Is something funny?"

"No. I just - it's comforting to know that even with such an astute mind, there are still things in this world about which you are...remarkably dim." She chuckled lightly.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side like a dog trying to determine the source of a sound.

"I fear you've just insulted me." He said as though he wasn't sure how he should feel about that.

"It's my turn." She retorted.

It took everything she had not to flinch when Sherlock suddenly and gracefully hopped off the exam table, narrowing his eyes at her. As it was, she took a small step back.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" He said.

That couldn't be uncertainty in his voice. Not Sherlock. Molly faltered at first, but felt emboldened by her streak of early morning bravado.

"Come now, Sherlock." It almost felt good to be the one patronizing _him_ for a change. "The most insulting thing is you believe me stupid enough not to realize how you manipulate me. You think I don't recognize your false flattery for what it is? Then how you take it away just to keep me on my toes? You use me, Sherlock. And I suppose you're right. I really am stupid, because I see it happening and still go along with it."

She said the last part more to herself than to him. None of it was said with malice, but rather with a resigned melancholy. It had taken a five a.m. wake up call to make her face up to her suspicion that he had little to no respect for her and probably always would. Perhaps that was what was bothering her; a newfound acceptance that Sherlock saw her as nothing more than a puppet. To him she was a means to an end and nothing would ever change that.

A sudden uneasiness pulled her from this reverie. Sherlock was quiet. Too quiet, she realized. Normally, when he wasn't on a silence binge, he had something to say about everything if not simply rattling off a stream of consciousness. But now, she noticed, he was standing wordlessly, watching her with an unreadable expression. Not wanting to give herself time to regret her words, Molly decided to change the subject.

"I'll go find some medical tape, you need something to hold the cut together." She turned to leave.

"Molly." Sherlock finally spoke.

There was a foreign quality to his voice that caused Molly, against her better judgement, to pause. She reluctantly faced him again.

"Yes?"

"...I'm sorry."

His words were startling, not just for their implication but for the fact that Molly detected only complete sincerity from him.

Still, she wouldn't let herself forget whom she was dealing with. She forced herself to remain unphased.

"Are you?" She asked flatly. "Excuse me."

She made to leave again. And again she was stopped, this time by Sherlock's hand. He gripped her firmly by the arm and pulled her back towards him, their hands at his chest. For an instant, she thought he might actually harm her somehow and real fear shot through her.

"Sherlock!" Molly sputtered.

It was all she got out before his lips were on hers. For all his intensity it was a remarkably gentle kiss, though it still left her breathless. She wondered where he had learned to do it so well as she'd never seen him with anyone in a romantic capacity before. Then again, this was Sherlock, a man who would never settle for doing anything half-heartedly.

Random musings aside, for that brief moment the angels sang, the stars aligned and all was right in the world.

Then Sherlock broke the kiss and harsh reality wormed its way back in. Molly stood frozen in his arms as her head cleared.

"What the hell was that?" She gasped eventually.

"I said I was sorry but you didn't believe me." Sherlock replied, low and quiet.

"So the only logical alternative was to _kiss_ me?" Molly scoffed at him.

"Logic had little to do with it."

What was he playing at? Molly wanted to believe him, to believe that he had kissed her because he had truly felt the desire to. He didn't appear to be leading her on. However, this was _Sherlock_ and past experience reminded her that he was very skilled at emulating real emotion without feeling it, though granted he was usually more transparent about it with her. Molly's mind raced until finally she pushed him away, shouting,

"Dammit!"

She took a few steadying breaths, pinching her brow.

"Sherlock, I swear if this is some _ploy_ of yours to stay in my good graces just so you can keep using m-"

Sherlock emitted a guttural growl of frustration and once more interrupted her with a kiss. This one had more force behind it, causing her to stumble a bit. But same as before, she began to melt against him. It wasn't fair that everything about him made Molly weak. She was practically helpless when it came to Sherlock. He always knew just what to say and do to keep her baited. He was just like that bastard Jim. And Jim had turned out to be...

A sudden mixture of hatred and panic hit her like cold water, making her jerk away.

"Stop it!" She smacked Sherlock on the head without thinking, regrettably on the same side as his wound.

Sherlock swore in pain, holding a hand over the cut. Molly had her own hand over her mouth, shocked by her actions. Once Sherlock had recovered she asked,

"Are you all right?"

"What do you think?" He snapped at her.

She ignored the clipped reply, more scared by what she knew she had to do now than by his anger. She shut her eyes against tears threatening to fall.

"Sherlock, listen to me. I will do what ever you want, yeah? What ever you need here - a body, a lab test, anything - I will do all I can to help you get it." A tear drop finally escaped. "But I beg of you; stop using my feelings for you against me. No more lies, no more false compliments. Just leave me alone."

She didn't want to see his reaction or lack there of. More importantly, she didn't want him to see her break. Molly made a hasty exit.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock returned home that afternoon to 221B Baker Street, his flatmate John Watson was there but did not greet him.

John was seated in his chair in the living room reading a paper and resolutely ignoring Sherlock. It was childish, he knew, but he didn't care. He was cross with Sherlock for having left him, not for the first time, to sit on his hands whilst _he_ hunted down a criminal. It made John feel shamefully useless, (though sometimes going along with Sherlock had much the same effect). He didn't get many shifts at the clinic and working on a case with Sherlock was usually the most fulfilling thing he did all week. To be left behind like some incompetent was extremely infuriating.

His attempt at punishment did little good, however. Sherlock didn't even notice John wasn't talking to him, merely entering wordlessly, removing his coat and sitting down on the couch amidst a cloud of brooding. John inhaled with irritation and folded his paper with slightly more aggression than was warranted. He decided he would have to speak to let Sherlock know he wasn't speaking to him. (He pushed out of his mind how ridiculously wife-ish that sounded.)

"So?" He said, voice clipped. "How did it go?"

It took a moment for Sherlock to respond.

"Hmm? Oh, fine, fine. I was right of course, it was the woman's brother-in-law. He gave me this for my efforts."

He gestured vaguely at the bandage on his temple.

John stood, walked over to Sherlock and, taking a doctorly stance, he leaned in to investigate the wound. After several seconds he stood back to make his diagnosis.

"Looks painful."

Sherlock turned to him with an expression of incredulity.

"And for such sound assessments as that they gave you a medical degree."

He sighed as he sank back into the couch.

"Be a lamb and make some tea, won't you?"

"Oh stuff it, Sherlock!" John burst out angrily. "You leave me here to twiddle my thumbs while you're out risking your neck solving a case. D'you know while you were off playing the vigilante, the most productive thing _I've_ done all day is managing to clean that stain you made on the kitchen table? Am I meant to thank you for that?"

"Do stop feeling sorry for yourself, John." Sherlock whined. "I solved the puzzle, that's the important thing."

"No, the important thing is a bad person will be rightly served justice."

Sherlock frowned.

"What did _I_ say?"

"Forget it." John threw up his hands. "I am going to make some tea, and _not_ because you told me to but because if I don't do something now my head might explode and there'd be no one else to clean it up!" He declared, then moved into the kitchen muttering something about 'arrogant prigs'.

When he came out with two cups of tea, he noted that Sherlock had barely moved from the same position. Used to his quirks, John put a cup on the coffee table in front of him with a thunk.

"You're welcome." He said pointedly.

Not expecting a response, he walked over to his chair and sat down for another fit of stoney silence, sipping bitterly at his drink. Sherlock eventually moved, sitting forward to rest his arms on his knees, not touching his drink.

"John."

"Yeah?" John tried his best to sound disinterested.

But looking over at his friend, Sherlock seemed to be truly vexed by something and concern overshadowed John's anger.

"What is it?" He asked, sitting straighter.

"I've done something." Sherlock said, studying his hands. 'And I'm not entirely sure what to make of it."

Concern turned into near alarm.

"What are you talking about Sherlock, what have you done?" And he added, because it was Sherlock, "Do I want to know? Or am I going to want deniability?"

When Sherlock didn't rise to the (sort of) joke, alarm slowly became panic. If he was having him on, he was doing a proper job of it. John watched as Sherlock took a moment, idly picking up a tea towel off the coffee table to bunch in his hands.

"I...kissed Molly Hooper."

"You-! Shit!" John cursed, having spilt hot tea on himself in surprise. Before the swear had even left his lips, Sherlock had tossed the towel at him. John sorted himself out and then cleared his throat, placing his mug safely on the end table beside him.

"Thank you. Right, so you uh...you - you kissed-"

"Molly Hooper, yes John." Sherlock finished for him, not impatiently.

"Okay. Huh. So...did you...I mean, you didn't...didn't, y'know..."

"Didn't what?"

"You didn't...force yourself on this woman, did you?"

Sherlock's head shot up and he looked as though he wished he had something much harder than a towel to throw.

"Shut up! I did not assault Molly!"

"Right, fine, sorry." John apologized, relief clear in his voice.

Sherlock shook his head at John's perceived stupidity. Then slowly his expression became thoughtful and he raised an eyebrow, saying,

"Although..."

"Here we go." John groaned, putting his hands over his face.

"Stop it! It wasn't like that...exactly."

"Well, exactly how was it then Sherlock? What _exactly_ compelled you to kiss Molly?"

Sherlock shrugged, continuing to stare at his hands.

"I apologized, and she wouldn't believe me."

John waited for further explanation. When none came, he tried to encourage it.

"So naturally you thought you should...kiss her?"

"There wasn't any thinking involved." Sherlock said.

Not sure what to make of that, John pressed on.

"All right. You kissed her. Then what?"

Sherlock stood and began pacing the living room, rubbing his forehead with one hand and gesticulating with the other.

"She asked what the hell I was doing. I gave her the same reasons I've given you. She still refused to take my word for it so I...kissed her again."

"Oh, good God..."

"I said I wasn't thinking."

"Clearly. What did she do?"

"Well, then she hit me."

A giggle escaped from John. He immediately resumed a straight face just before Sherlock glared at him. He raised a hand in defence.

"Sorry." He said. "Go on."

"Molly shoved me away, said she would do anything I asked so far as the services she provides for me at the morgue are concerned, but begged me to leave her alone otherwise. Then she left."

John couldn't help a small smile of approval.

"Bravo Molly."

"'Bravo Molly'? Let's not stray from what's important here, John." Sherlock chided.

"I honestly don't know what you find important here." John shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Where's you're dilemma? You kissed her, only God knows why, and she isn't suing. She's asked you to leave her alone, you leave her alone. It's the least you could do after the way you've treated her. Frankly you're quite lucky she's still giving you time of day."

Sherlock moved to the window, peering outside.

"I can't do that."

John's brow furrowed.

"Why the hell not?"

"Things are different now." Sherlock said softly.

They both fell silent until John let out a snort of derision.

"You infantile bastard."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder with mild surprise.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me!" John stood again, walking towards Sherlock. "Dangle something in front of you and you want nothing to do with it; threaten to take it away and you'll do anything to keep it! Molly is a person, not a plaything for your amusement!"

Sherlock spun round, pointing a finger at John.

"That is not why I kissed her. I told you, I wasn't thinking!"

John laughed

"A fine excuse."

"No, John, you aren't listening - I _wasn't thinking_!" Sherlock stressed the last words.

"Yeah, I get it."

"No, you-" Sherlock inhaled sharply, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his composure. "John, this brain never stops. It is constantly analyzing, deducing, organizing, filing away, questioning - you know this. "

He took John by the shoulders, making him squirm uncomfortably.

"But from the moment that I kissed Molly, all thought ceased. My brain was silent for the first time in as long as I can remember."

He released him, losing himself in the memory as he went back to the window.

"It was...bliss."

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"That's never happened before. Not for anything or anyone."

The doctor was stymied. It wasn't that he thought Sherlock incapable of emotion. The man was certainly proficient in displaying boredom and disdain. He might smirk or laugh the odd time with John when they teased one another. He would even express joy every so often when a particularly convoluted or vicious case was put to them. It was just that John never imagined that Sherlock would acknowledge to anyone, including Sherlock himself, such average feelings as attraction or romance. So surely that wasn't what he meant, and if he did it must be a farce...but then again...

"You're not taking the mick, are you..." John said, stating it as a fact and not a question. Sherlock truly was disturbed by the whole situation and couldn't figure out why.

"You're a deep well my friend."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Yes, most helpful, John, but it hardly explains why this is happening!"

He punctuated the last word with a thump of his head against the window pane. John felt a pang of pity which dissipated his frustration. Sherlock really didn't get it. Or perhaps he didn't want to. He did his best to avoid sounding patronizing.

"Sherlock this isn't about Molly being able to stop your brain. I think you like her and your brain has finally cottoned on. You kissed her because you never thought she would give up on you and when you saw that she might be you got desperate."

His therapist certainly had taught him a thing or two. Sherlock apparently thought the same.

"Oh, John, you did not fire your therapist soon enough. As I have told you before, countless times, my life is my work. I don't concern myself with the dull bits as ordinary people do."

"Well, sometimes it isn't that simple Sher-"

"Not to mention I am a sociopath!" Sherlock interrupted. "Albeit high-functioning, but a sociopath none the less."

"Yeah, self-diagnosed!" John shot back, overwhelmed once more by aggravation. He fixed his friend with an accusatory glare. "And what a brilliant label that is to hide behind. You really are a genius, Sherlock, and a damned fine actor to boot. You play the part of this..._psychotic_ so beautifully you've managed to convince yourself it's real. And it's perfect because that way you don't have to make any excuses do you? No apologies for your bad behaviour, for mistakes, for disappointing; don't have to face up to any guilt or embarrassment or, God forbid, caring about someone else's welfare. No, it's so much easier being the sociopath isn't it?"

He smiled sardonically.

"Well you may have some people fooled, mate, yourself included, but you haven't fooled everyone. That's why Molly likes you. That's why your brother worries after you. That's why even Lestrade puts up with you. That's why _I_ am your friend. Because despite your best efforts, we bothered to stick around for a second look and we can see your potential for decency and good if you would just allow it."

John was surprised at himself, breathing heavily by the end. He hadn't meant to go off so, but knowing that Sherlock was going to hurt yet another person simply because he didn't want to acknowledge being a member of the human race, well...he had to at least try to make Sherlock see reason. The silence between them was deafening until Sherlock moved from the window toward the couch.

"A cracking speech, John, most entertaining but I'm afraid you've been watching far too many afternoon soaps with Mrs. Hudson."

He laid down on the couch, curling his knees up and putting his back to John. John shook his head.

"You're afraid, all right." He said, his voice low. "Afraid that I'm right. That Molly still expected better of you even after you've tried so hard to convince her you aren't worth it."

There was no reaction from the man on the couch. John felt he had to make one last appeal, on Molly's behalf.

"Sherlock. If you are willing to admit to yourself that you might actually have feelings for Molly then tell her, for your own sake. But if you insist on being so self-destructive then do NOT drag her with you. Do as she's asked and leave her alone."

He received only a bored sniff.

"Well, I think I've said enough for a lifetime."

He walked to his chair and grabbed his coat, putting it on.

"I need some exercise, I'm going out."

He was nearly out the door when he heard,

"You'll be back?"

He almost didn't believe it had come from Sherlock. He looked at the man's back and sighed.

"Yeah, mate, I'll be back."

He walked into the hall.

"We need milk." Sherlock called.

John slammed the door behind him.

XXXXXX

**Aaaah, that felt good. I finally figured out what was bothering me about giving Sherlock romance. Because they labelled him a sociopath that, at least in my opinion, made him irredeemable. A sociopath is mentally ill, needless to say, and beyond help or the ability to change. It wouldn't matter what anyone did to or for him, empathy and caring would still be completely irrelevant to him. Hence, John's speech was born. Came just pouring out of me, which is why it's so awkwardly long winded. But at least this way Sherlock is instead a deeply injured and insecure individual (yay for alliteration) using sociopathy as a front. It ****would explain why he's able to remotely care about John, why he whispered to Sarah something to the effect of "It's all right, it's over" to try and calm her after her nearly being killed in the second episode (despite his logic probably telling him how useless it is to do so, other than to fulfill a need to make someone feel better). It's why Moriarty knows he isn't completely heartless. It's why Lestrade thinks he is a great man with potential to be a good one. And this way romantic attachment would not be so far-fetched. I'm sure I'm not the first to have this epiphany about the character, but it was fun to build on. Still feels a bit flimsy as I don't think Sherlock would stand there and take such an assessment without spinning logic to refute it, even if it were accurate. But whatevs, my fic my rules HA! Anyway I'm over thinking again so I hope you enjoyed, I hope to make more chapters and thank you all for your reviews!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Sorry to begin and end every chapter with self-criticism (I love myself, really I do) but WOW this chapter is angst-y. That's what I get for writing it at eleven o'clock at night after a bad day. I'd just been reading a bunch of fics where John gets hurt and Sherlock tries to hold it together and this idea popped into my head. Feels really over the top but I think Sherlock would need something over the top to move him at all so...do forgive if it's too much.**

**Also just incase it's confusing, I read somewhere that in Britain they call gurneys 'trolleys' so...that's what I mean when I use that word. **

**Another big thank you to all the reviewers and favouriters and alerters :) Makes my week! **

XXXXXXX

Molly had no idea when she woke that morning just how much her life could be turned upside down in one day.

Dr. Watson, or John as he insisted she call him, had been at the morgue that evening. Sherlock had been, in a sense, doing what she had asked. He was leaving her alone, sending John in his stead to do his bidding. She thought she would be relieved by this but was annoyed to find herself disappointed that Sherlock was avoiding her.

This was no fault of John's of course. He really was, for lack of a better word, a sweetheart. Compared to Sherlock he was a saint. Molly could see why Sherlock seemed to enjoy his company. He was courteous when making the often ridiculous requests on behalf of his colleague. He would wait patiently if Molly had something to finish up before helping him. He would chat pleasantly, listen attentively and offer compliments on various things which, unlike a certain someone were actually sincere. He was a good man, and not in any condescending or superior way. She didn't mind his visits at all and felt confident in considering him a friend.

So she had no second thoughts about chasing after him when she found he had left his wallet behind that evening. He'd taken it out to obtain a list of instructions Sherlock had written, and had managed to forget it on one of the tables.

The exit to the parking lot was right in front of the elevators up one floor. It was the entrance she recommended John use when he visited and it was usually where he went to wait for his taxi. She knew she could probably catch him there now.

She got upstairs and went to the door to scan the lot. It was a slow night at the hospital so there was next to no one outside. As such she spotted him easily, standing at the curb across the lot trying to hail a cab. She was about to step outside after him when it all happened in rapid succession.

A vehicle that was clearly not a cab pulled up behind John. A large man stepped out from the passenger side and made his way around the car. At first glance he seemed unassuming but something about him made Molly's chest tighten with apprehension.

Something wasn't right.

John had turned at the sound of the car and was currently sizing up the approaching man. They exchanged words Molly couldn't hear. Then the stranger pulled out...what was it? Some sort of police baton? Molly's heart beat fast.

John attempted to strike first. Molly's hand went up on the glass door and she nearly screamed. The large man swiped John's fist away with one arm and viciously brought the baton down on his skull with the other. John immediately crumpled. The stranger caught him before he hit the ground and he dragged him to the back seat. He opened the door and unceremoniously threw John's limp form into the car. Shutting the door he looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the act, thankfully completely missing Molly. Then he fixed his coat and got back in the front seat.

The car had barely started moving before Molly was out the door and racing to her own. She'd never been more grateful for up front employee parking.

It wasn't every day Molly tailed a car of criminals. But she had watched enough movies to have some idea of how it was supposed to be done. She didn't kid herself, though, that luck had a large hand in the fact that she managed to stay on them without being suspected. Something told her that this made these criminals rather unintelligent and stupidity made them even more dangerous. When they finally turned down a dead-end street, Molly drove past rather than follow. She knew her presence there would become quite evident if she did (they may be stupid but they weren't blind) and anyway they obviously couldn't go very far.

She stopped the car where the street was still visible and pulled her mobile out of her lab coat. She searched frantically for the first-aid pamphlet she had from St. Bart's. It had the number for the police department on it and she thought if she called there she might be able to get in contact with that inspector that John and Sherlock were always assisting. What was his name? Larode? Lesade? No...Lestrade, that was it! She suspected he would be the best person to help, he would know what to do. After what felt like far too long to Molly she found the pamphlet in her glove box and quickly dialled the number. It took several different people to finally connect her with him.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." He answered.

Molly spoke hoarsely, her mouth dry.

"Inspector, my name is Molly Hooper. We've met before, briefly. I'm an acquaintance of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes'."

There was silence on the other end.

"What's he done now, Ms. Hooper?"

She didn't need to ask what he meant.

"I'm not calling about him. It's Doctor Watson, sir. Some men have taken him from St. Bart's hospital and I'm afraid he's in trouble."

Hysteria edged into her voice at acknowledging the surreal situation out loud.

"I'm calling you because you know them best and I thought you might know the types they deal with. Is that all right?"

She was near tears.

"That's fine Molly." Lestrade's voice was more official now, grave but still reassuring.

"You've done the right thing. What makes you think the doctor is in trouble?"

Molly fought back a sob.

"One of the men hit John over the head. He was unconscious when they put hm in the car. He'll need an ambulance."

She felt tears spill down her cheeks.

"All right, you're doing very well Molly. Tell me where you are and I'll send some officers over to-"

"That's the thing." Molly said, taking a shuddering breath. "I followed them in my car. I-I was right there, I didn't think..."

Realization of the very present danger she was in fully registered with her and her panic doubled.

"Please, Inspector!"

"You followed them?"

Alarm was clear in Lestrade's voice. She heard him exhale heavily, no doubt trying to keep his head.

"Do you know where you are?" He asked.

Molly gave him the name of the last street she had passed.

"Good. Molly you've done beautifully, but now you need to get somewhere safe. I'll give you my mobile number so you can call me when you're there. Do you understand?"

"I can't." She gasped out through her tightened throat.

There was a pause.

"Ms. Hooper I can't force you to do anything, certainly not over the phone, but I highly suggest you-"

"I can't." She repeated, more strongly this time. "If I leave they might go elsewhere and take John with them. I can't do that."

Silence again.

"Then you must stay in your car." He said, words laden with a tone that told her he thought the whole thing far from ideal. "Lock the doors and keep the car off. I'll dispatch officers and then head to you myself. I'll give you my mobile number, as I said, incase anything...else develops."

She found a pen on the floor and wrote down the number he gave her on the pamphlet.

"It won't be long, I promise." He told her before hanging up.

Molly struggled to control her breathing as she stared fearfully out the window and down the street where John was lost. Nothing stirred.

She remained that way the whole fifteen minutes it took the police to arrive, along with Lestrade. She'd never been happier to see the flashing red and blue. An ambulance soon followed.

More attempts were made by Lestrade and other officers to get Molly to vacate to some place safer but she still refused. They didn't have time to argue with her for very long as they had to act fast.

The whole operation was a blur to Molly. They had established that there was an abandoned building at the end of the road and surmised that this was their destination. Officers donned heavy swat gear and proceeded down the road on foot so as to remain unseen for as long as possible. Molly's heart stopped when gun shots sounded in the distance. Then it was over. It was radioed that the perps were down and the building secured.

With everything going on Molly became practically invisible. She did manage to ride along in a squad car to the scene after assuring the officer she felt fine (a bold-faced lie) and that yes, she understood the risks. She couldn't explain even to herself exactly why she couldn't leave. She had to be sure John was okay. A_nd not just for his sake_, she thought guiltily. She couldn't imagine how Sherlock might react if anything were to happen to John. She knew Sherlock cared about him, even if Sherlock didn't know it himself, and she didn't want to find out what he might become if he lost John.

The sight at the end of the street was a nightmare. It ended at the building, a dilapidated and likely rotting structure that looked ready to collapse should even a stiff breeze come at it. Vehicles with their lights flashing were everywhere, illuminating the dismal surroundings. Officers were laying down arms and removing head gear. A second ambulance pulled up, its crew rushing into the building to follow the one already inside. Molly wondered when they had called for another ambulance and more importantly why. She spotted Lestrade coming out, looking harried as he spoke animatedly with a colleague. His eyes caught Molly's and his brow furrowed in confusion. He dismissed the man beside him and walked over to her.

"Ms. Hooper."

"I'm sorry, Inspector." Molly started before he could tell her to get lost.

"I won't get in the way, I just...I just had to see..." She trailed off, becoming lost in the madness around them.

"I understand Molly. But you should know that John-"

He didn't finish as trollies were carried from the building. The first held the man who had clubbed John. He now looked awful lying in blood stained clothes and wearing an oxygen mask.

The second trolly carried John. He was still unconscious and was also wearing a mask. They had him covered in blankets up to his neck, save one arm outside the sheets probably to be used for I.V.'s. And walking beside him was – Molly's breath hitched – it was Sherlock!

"When did he..." She wondered aloud.

"He was here before anyone." Lestrade answered, sounding half exasperated half impressed.

"Not sure how. He's behaving strangely, could barely get him away from John. John's been...shot." He said carefully.

Molly stiffened.

"He's lost a lot of blood..." He added sadly. "The crew couldn't move fast enough for Sherlock, couldn't move John gently enough, secure him on the trolly well enough. He didn't even gloat over having cracked the case, just wanted us to help John. I would've thought that would be a welcome change but somehow it's...disturbing."

The D.I. shook his head, mystified, watching the paramedics as they made their way to the ambulance nearest the pair.

Molly couldn't take her eyes off Sherlock. The crew reached the ambulance and loaded John in back, Sherlock barking after them to mind how they jostled the trolly. Lestrade moved in to intervene.

"Holmes." He said, trying to push Sherlock back. "Let them do their job."

Sherlock bitterly shoved Lestrade's hand away and began pacing between the ambulance and a police car. He was a terrible sight. His normally sharp gaze was clouded with what Molly could scarcely believe looked like fear. His shoulders, usually held up with arrogant confidence, were tense and hunched forward. Worst of all were his hands; they were shaking. He stopped mid-step when he noticed her standing there.

"Molly." He stated dumbly.

She moved hesitantly toward him. Lestrade stopped her a moment, whispering,

"Be careful."

He then walked away to talk to another officer. Molly continued over to Sherlock to stand in front of him.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

She hated how far away his voice sounded. She ignored his question.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry." She said, about to reach out to him but thinking better of it.

His expression hardened.

"Why? You didn't shoot him." He said as though Molly were stupid for having suggested it despite the fact she hadn't.

"This team is from St. Bart's. It's a good facility Sherlock, I'm sure you know."

He gave a derisive snort.

"All I know is this team is a bunch of BLOODY MORONS!" Sherlock bellowed the last words at the ambulance.

Molly winced at his volume and tried to give the paramedics an apologetic look. Sherlock then let out a yell and slammed his fist down on the roof of the squad care closest to him, causing Molly to jump. Lestrade looked ready to come over but Molly held up a hand and he stayed away. The others were too busy to notice two civilians, even if one was making a spectacle of himself. Sherlock spun back around, a finger pointing to the ambulance.

"That idiot was not supposed to do that. He wasn't even supposed to be here and he goes and gets himself kidnapped! He's always _doing_ that!"

"Sherlock, don't." Molly pled, knowing he didn't actually blame John.

"I had him." Sherlock went on, speaking as if Molly were in his head and could see it all playing out as he did.

"I had the bastard in my hands. All he had was a gun. As if I would let him shoot me. If John hadn't gone and-"

His voice broke. He grimaced as though in pain.

"Shit!" He cursed and turned away.

Molly almost reached out to help him, thinking he was hiding an injury, until she saw him swipe a hand at his eyes. She froze. Was he...

When he turned back around his eyes were wet but his face was cold. He was breathing hard.

"He wasn't meant to be here." Sherlock insisted again, to no one in particular.

"Sherlock stop." Molly said, afraid he might faint breathing so.

It was a whole different kind of terror than what she'd been feeling. It was like watching some great monument, one that had stood strong and steadfast for centuries, suddenly crack and crumble to the earth. Sherlock's near panting became more shallow and erratic. He looked over at Molly and his face went blank, like he might be sick. Then his legs buckled oddly and he began to collapse.

Thinking back on it, Molly wasn't sure where she found the strength. But all the same, she lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock under the arms before he hit the ground. She pulled him upright and into an embrace to hold him there. His face somehow ended up buried in her neck and all she could do was rub circles on his back while fighting not to fall apart herself. He made no sobs but she felt her shoulder becoming wet with tears. He gripped desperately at her coat and took gulping breaths of air. The authorities around them began looking in their direction, Lestrade appearing especially concerned. She waved them all away.

"Just a bit dizzy. Understandably. He's fine."

Where she had found a voice to speak was a wonder. When Lestrade didn't look convinced, she added,

"Really."

Lestrade cocked his head sceptically at her, but didn't interrupt.

Her voice must have broken whatever had taken over Sherlock. His breathing returned to normal and he released his vice hold on her coat, slowly straightening up to pull away and stand on his own.

"Sorry." He mumbled.

"Shut up." Molly said, not meaning to be curt. She just didn't know how much more of a destroyed Sherlock she could take.

He had tear stains on his face.

"Listen to me." She commanded, wiping his cheeks with her fingers. "St. Bart's is an excellent hospital. They save lives every day. They'll do everything they can to help John, he's in the best hands. And I work there, too."

She mentally cringed at the obviousness of her words.

"I will talk to people, make sure we know everything that's going on with John and you'll be able to visit him whenever and for however long you like, within reason. Understood?"

Sherlock stared at her, dumbfounded. He finally nodded in assent.

"Right. Now you have to let them see to you, Sherlock." She said, gesturing to the paramedics. "If you let them you'll be able to ride along with John to the hospital."

Sherlock nodded again. She turned him and gave him a light push toward the ambulance, saying,

"Go."

She was relieved to see the ambulance crew was forgiving, one of them offering Sherlock a hand up into the vehicle with a sympathetic smile. Then the doors were shut and they were off.

Molly held her stomach and fell hard, bursting into sobs. It was Lestrade that stopped her from hitting the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock lived for the unexpected. It broke up the monotonous predictability of the every day. It was such a rarity for his brain to be truly challenged so _any_ challenge was always welcome.

There was John, for example. For such a seemingly plain person John could be rather unpredictable, even by Sherlock's standards. When they first met, Sherlock had admittedly laid on the display of his intellectual gifts a tad thick as he often did when meeting anyone new. Though mostly dull, he still found he could derive a small bit of amusement from other's reactions of confusion giving way to shock and then inevitably anger at having been, for lack of a better word, violated. While John had initially shown the expected confusion at Sherlock's eye-balled assessment of his sordid life, Sherlock was...intrigued when John seemed enamoured with his abilities rather than scandalized by them. He'd named Sherlock's talents to be 'extraordinary' and Sherlock found the words had left this mouth before he realized it:

"You really think so?"

After all it was far from what people usually said.

He also thought it noteworthy that for such a tame temperament his companion had an attraction to solving the cases they were given that rivalled his own.

When it came to the Study in Pink, as John called it, Sherlock had seen the look of disappointment and defeat that had clouded the doctor's features as he had watched Sherlock rush out the door to the crime scene that day. It had taken until he was downstairs donning his coat for it to register with Sherlock what the expression might mean. This was largely because it didn't quite fit how John presented himself, even that self that only Sherlock could deduce. It compelled him to go back upstairs to clarify that yes, John was an army doctor, a good one and had seen too many deaths and too much trouble for one seemingly normal man. John confirmed this with a definitive air – 'far too much' he had said. And yet he continued to stand there looking hopeful, almost eager.

"Want to see more?" Sherlock had asked before the sense of disbelief he felt could seep out through his demeanour. Surely this mild-mannered individual before him, with all his discipline and morals, couldn't possibly be interested in such macabre things as a suicide. It was the closest to surprised Sherlock could get when John let out an enthusiastic "Oh God, yes." Sherlock had only just managed to maintain his unflappability, focusing his attentions on getting caught up in the thrill of the case instead.

But above all else, John's most remarkable attribute was his unwavering refusal to let Sherlock get away with anything. His persistence was admirable. Whenever Sherlock behaved in a way contrary to the social norm, John would chide, correct, finger-wag and attempt to guilt him until blue in the face, even if it was futile. Sherlock was just as persistent in trying to dissuade him from this. He'd even tried to warn him.

"Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

That was his way of telling John not to depend on him to do the right thing; that he would always let him down if John insisted on believing Sherlock could be better. But nothing he did, no amount of crass, selfish or down-right cruel behaviour he had dealt had chased John away. He was beginning to believe nothing ever would.

On that same token of challenging persons there was Molly. An enigma in her own right. Her first dichotomy was that she was so sweet, so thoughtful and so _good_, yet she was content to spend most every day working in a dismal mortuary. Stranger still was that it did not effect her sunny disposition to be constantly immersed in such a gloomy atmosphere. She seemed to view death as a part of life and had come to relatively positive terms with it. Not in any aloof or callous way like Sherlock, but with respectful acceptance that living included dying.

What was most puzzling, however, was that of all the men out there she was determinedly attracted to Sherlock. He wasn't flattering himself, for she had made her attraction perfectly, almost painfully clear. He manipulated her like some malevolent puppet master and she still smiled and blushed and doted on him like a love-sick school girl. Sherlock couldn't understand why (an unusual circumstance for him) and whether that fascinated or terrified him he couldn't decide.

He did know that he had been thrown when she had once dared to try asking him out. It was one of those isolated incidences where his brain just about drew a blank. Fortunately he'd retained enough mental acuity to recognize what was about to happen and had cut her off at the pass, resorting to one of his flirtatious observations to distract her. When she'd persisted even more boldly he'd feigned ignorance, pretending to misunderstand her suggestion of a coffee date as an offer to bring him a cup and then he'd made a hasty exit. Why he had felt the need to play such a game with her, why he couldn't plainly and simply turn her down, he didn't know. He'd been able to do it quite easily with John. He may have been concerned about losing his liberties at St. Bart's. But somehow that didn't settle the question entirely.

And it certainly didn't explain his behaviour when Molly had introduced 'Jim'. Just as John had accused him of in their argument weeks previous, Sherlock had acted with childish jealousy. While he knew Molly was probably trying to elicit that very reaction from him by flaunting her budding romance in his face he wasn't able to stop it welling up inside. This had made him angry and he had directed his anger at Molly. He stomped all over her new relationship by pointing out stereotypical and frankly weak evidence to demonstrate that Jim was gay (when Jim leaving his number was all she really needed to know). It was such a ridiculous urge but he'd been helpless to ignore it.

All this was only until recently, though. Molly's experience with Moriarty had changed her and from that so too did the dynamic between she and Sherlock. She no longer seemed to relish their time together. She was cordial enough but clearly distant. There was no more tinkling laughter and nervous stuttering. She would simply fulfill Sherlock's requests and get out of his way. She would rebuff his attempts at flirting by immediately changing the subject or excusing herself from the room. It was not unexpected given the circumstances but he found it discomfiting none the less. She had obviously been drawn in by Moriarty because his false charm and fake smiles were much like Sherlock's. His unique brilliance had probably bled through and had proven to be quite like Sherlock's as well. She'd liked Moriarty because he reminded her of Sherlock, but now it was the other way round. Now Sherlock reminded her of Moriarty and he suspected that had quelled any warm feelings she'd had for him. This only made him try harder to regain their usual way of interacting. The more unresponsive and evasive Molly become the more Sherlock pursued as though desperate to keep their dysfunctional relationship sound.

When she had finally said aloud what he'd hoped she never would – that she was well aware of his tricks and resented them – Sherlock had been flooded with something akin to dread. In a last-ditch, almost frantic effort to smooth over the situation the only thing he could come up with was to kiss her.

It was a stunning reaction on his part. Sherlock rarely stayed mentally present at any given time. Usually his mind was determining someone's past or predicting future behaviour; it never completely focused on where he was. It was a constant hum that was occasionally irritating and always exhausting. But on kissing Molly, the hum had vanished. For once, Sherlock had lived in the moment. All he had registered was the feel of her lips, the smell of her hair, her soft gasp of surprise. If he were a more sentimental man, he might have called it peaceful. Why, in a moment of weakness he had even described it to John as 'bliss'.

But she had pushed him away and his mind had promptly resumed its manic ramblings. So he'd had to try it again, needed to make sure it hadn't been a one-off. The opportunity to do so had almost slipped away, however, as Molly had been affronted at being manhandled, assuming it was another one of his selfish tactics. Hadn't she felt it too? Didn't she understand what had just occurred? With an agitated growl he had grabbed and kissed her again, and again the results had been instant. It was like calm after a storm, if one thought in such metaphors. And then, with a smack to his head she'd brought him crashing back down. He'd spoken bitterly to her but it wasn't Molly he'd been angry with. He'd been mad at himself for behaving so irrationally. He'd avoided her after that, partly because she'd asked but mostly because he was afraid of his own reaction should he see her again. He was finding her less challenging and more frightening with each time she made him lose control.

Sherlock wasn't exactly a proud man. He wouldn't be able to do what he did so well if he were to concern himself with what others thought of him. He knew what most thought, of course, but it was irrelevant. If anything Sherlock prided himself on being so unlike the rest of humanity. So when he saw John get shot and a large amount of blood pool beneath him alarmingly quickly, his first thought hadn't been for John's life or for swift retaliation. Stark panic had shot through him and he had wondered, _what am I going to do?_ Not how could he save John or how was he going to get help, but how was his own mind going to react? A selfish thought perhaps but there you go. Any person in his place – seeing someone that was a part of their every day, that they relied on to _be there_ every day, get gunned down in front of them – anyone would be traumatized, to say the least. And while he hated acknowledging it, he was a person. Did this mean he would go mad against his will? Become a shell of his former self? Be forced back to a life lived in a drugged haze to get through? None of these options were acceptable to Sherlock and he had pushed past panic to see that no matter what, John would survive. The emergency team hadn't seemed to grasp the importance of John's survival, treating his injuries (as Sherlock perceived it) roughly and with speed rather than accuracy. Sherlock had felt it was his duty then to assure those simpletons didn't worsen John's state, dogging their steps and firing criticisms left and right. He now knew this was the response he'd been willing his mind to keep at bay. For anyone else this behaviour would be considered coping admirably under such circumstances. For Sherlock, it was hysterics.

When he had laid eyes on Molly at the scene, he'd thought he was hallucinating at first. There'd been no logic to her presence. Yet there she'd been, looking at him with sympathy and a hint of fear. He'd found it had caused a surge of an emotion he'd long forgotten and that was so excruciating that he'd lashed out, slamming his fists on to a car. Molly continued to stand there, emanating pity. It had all proved too much for Sherlock and he'd unravelled in front of her. Inconvenient thing, emotion. He'd expected her to back away or shout for help or at the very least show disgust at such a display. Without hesitation she had supported him, embraced him. She'd treated him as though it were perfectly natural for Sherlock Holmes to fall apart. It was as though she'd expected it of him when even he hadn't known what to expect. She'd done her best to disguise what was going on to avoid making him a spectacle and then had herded him into the ambulance with John.

John

His companion had been rushed away the moment they'd arrived at St. Bart's and Sherlock hadn't heard word since. He currently found himself in a waiting room outside the Critical Care Unit with no idea what to do with himself. There'd been no one in his life before that had compelled him to spend a night in a hospital just waiting. The whole thing was foreign to him. How long did one normally wait? Shouldn't he be doing _something_? He sighed, putting his head in his hands and shutting his eyes against the din of the hospital.

"I spoke to a doctor at the desk." Lestrade's voice sounded at his left. Sherlock slowly looked over but said nothing, too spent to be startled or coherent.

"Apparently they expect John will be all right." Lestrade continued, taking a seat beside him. "They have him sedated for the time being."

Sherlock gazed down at his feet, his stomach churning with relief.

"They'll try waking him in the morning and he should be allowed visitors soon after that." Sherlock nodded. Funny how knowing John would be all right made it suddenly easier to take in air.

The two men sat in silence until Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer.

"Why are you here, Guy?" He asked rather sharply. Lestrade shrugged, draping an arm across the back of Sherlock's chair with a thoughtful expression.

"John is a friend. _You're_ my friend...I think. My shift is ended so it seemed like I should be here."

Sherlock sniffed.

"Well that would certainly make sense if I were anyone else, but I'm not. This is me you're talking to. I don't need you to hang about because of some twisted sense of obligation. Do us both a favour and go home." He turned his body away slightly as if to put a fine point on the matter.

"All right." Lestrade nodded in agreement.

But he made no move to leave. Instead he gave Sherlock a friendly pat on the shoulder whilst innocently studying the waiting room. He pretended not to notice Sherlock staring at him with exasperation. When Sherlock finally looked away, he surrendered to the amusement playing at the corners of his mouth with a smirk. Lestrade gave a broad grin in response.

"You know," he said eventually, "I gave her a lift here. I think she's down in her lab, trying to busy herself. Incase you want to talk to her."

Sherlock didn't need to ask who he meant. Molly should be the last person he needed to see but Lestrade was right. He wanted to talk to her. _Christ, what was wrong with him..._?

"Right," Lestrade got to his feet. "I really will leave you alone this time. I'm going to the cafeteria for what I'm sure will be a revolting snack. I'll see you later."

Before leaving he added, "Try not to get in your own way with this one, Sherlock."

XXXXXXXX

**AN: Sorry for the long wait, for those waiting heh. Had an awful case of writers block. Still not entirely happy with this but what else is new? Thanks for all the reviews and favourites and alerts. It's great encouragement. **


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I will never be content with anything I write, so I will say no more on this chapter. Questions and criticisms welcome. Thanks all :)**

**Addition: As I'm prone to do, I fiddled with a few things, nothing at all major.**

**XXXXXX**

Molly moved about her laboratory, fussing with papers and files and various other tools of her trade that were about.

Back at that horrid scene of the crime, when she had finished crying what she was sure must have been every last drop of moisture from her body, she'd been left with a feeling of restlessness. She suspected this state of unease would keep her on the go for some weeks. She was only able to currently function at all because of Detective Inspector Lestrade. He had been extremely kind to her through this whole ordeal. Once she had calmed down he had helped her into one of the vehicles and told her he was off duty. He would be going straight to the hospital to follow John and Sherlock, and he'd offered to take her with him. The ride had been a blur and when they'd arrived Lestrade had, with an apology, left her to investigate more about John's status. She'd spotted Sherlock in the waiting room looking vacant and shell-shocked. He never noticed her. Afraid she might start crying again, Molly had escaped to the safety of her work space to find anything she could to distract herself.

Needless to say these past few months had been turbulent for Molly, especially where her feelings for Sherlock were concerned. She had gone from total adoration and hopes that there was more to Sherlock than his brazen bearing, to facing some hard truths of where she stood with him, to being disgusted by just how similar he was to Moriarty.

Tonight had brought another shift in her perception of him. Any concerns she'd had about Sherlock and Moriarty being of the same mold had vanished. Moriarty would never have the heart to be so disturbed by a friend's life being in danger. In fact it was doubtful 'Jim' even had the ability to consider anyone a friend.

Sherlock on the other hand had displayed some actual humanity and as awful and painful as it was to witness, for Molly it was in a small way validating. She hadn't been wrong in sensing that somewhere inside Sherlock there was goodness tucked away. She'd seen glimmers of it in the past, more so when John entered his life, but she'd convinced herself it was all in her head. The events of this night left no question, though. No matter his claims, Sherlock was not a sociopath.

She was so lost in thought, it took Molly some time to notice Sherlock standing at the door. A file in hand, she stopped upon seeing him. He seemed somewhat clearer headed. His expression was calmer, more impassive, more Sherlock.

"Hi." She said softly.

"Hello."

The ensuing silence was almost suffocating. Molly spoke the first thing that came to mind just to fill it.

"How is he?"

Sherlock shrugged, entering the lab.

"He's out of the woods, as they say. Doctors have him sedated for rest and will wake him in the morning."

Molly's shoulders sagged as tension left them and she closed her eyes.

"Thank God..."

"Thanks to you." Sherlock corrected. "We might not have been so fortunate if not for what you did."

He stepped closer to her.

"No, no." She waved off his praise. "I'm lucky I didn't get us all killed, the circumstances could have been much, _much_ worse."

"You saved his life." Sherlock countered. "And for that I'll always be grateful."

Molly blinked, taken aback by the honest gratitude that was so unlike him. He had a remarkable proclivity for speaking such weighted words in such a deadpan, almost clinical manner.

"Well I...I'm just glad he's going to be all right."

"Why is it you put up with me, Molly?" Sherlock asked.

The sudden change of subject practically gave her whiplash. It took her time to make sense of the question.

"Excuse me?"

"Why did you tolerate me for so long? I certainly don't deserve it."

There was no trace of shame or regret in his voice, only curiosity and perhaps a touch of accusation. Molly's mouth hung open for a moment before she realized he probably wasn't about to leave without some sort of response.

"I...don't know really, I suppose I'm just used to it – used to you."

A terrible answer. It did nothing to satisfy him on this strange path of contemplation he was on.

"I'm vile to you." He said. "I torture you and abuse you all for personal gain."

"Sherlock..."

"I string you along like a toy or _pet_."

"Enough."

How was it possible that he was making her feel responsible for _his_ poor treatment of her? He didn't stop.

"I've never shown you a lick of respect. You must absolutely despise me. You should."

"Well I _don't_, Sherlock." Molly declared, looking him determinedly in the eye.

Her irritation was at odds with that statement but it shut him up. She sighed, looking away. The night was already beyond the worst of her life, this was the last thing she needed.

She was struck with a sense of deja vu when he moved to stand directly in front of her, much like he had on the night he'd kissed her.

"You don't?" He asked, more quietly.

She studied his face, searching for any indication as to what he was trying to determine with all this. She could think of no other reply than the truth. She shook her head.

"I could never."

She might've hated what he did at times, but she had only herself to blame for being foolish enough to still care about him.

At such close proximity to him she was like a dear in the headlights. Her breathing quickened.

"But you are afraid of me." He observed.

She couldn't help but laugh. Truer words had never been spoken.

"Terrified." The word sounded between a laugh and a gasp.

Further speech caught in her throat as he took her gently by the shoulders and she was, as always, pinned by his stare. He leaned forward and for a split-second she thought he might kiss her again. At the last moment, however, she found herself pulled into his arms and felt his face against her shoulder for the second time that evening.

By now it should have been next to impossible to be shocked by anything Sherlock did. Still, she found herself disarmed by his behaviour. Affection, especially that of a physical nature, was far from Sherlock's strong suit. The night's events must have had a profound effect on him and that thought filled Molly with sadness and empathy. She gave over to these emotions and, dropping the file carelessly to the floor, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

She couldn't put her finger on what he smelled like but it was infinitely better than the sterile, chemical smell of the hospital. She closed her eyes, able to take it in now that things had slowed down. Sherlock's nose brushed close to her ear and she felt goosebumps rise up her body. He exhaled heavily.

"You're too good to waste your efforts on me." He whispered, holding her tighter.

Molly stiffened. She knew what he was getting at. He was trying to end something that hadn't even begun. There was no way to know what she could say to make him see reason, so she was left with a pathetic retort, almost a plea.

"But I want you."

It sounded sexual, but what she meant was that she wanted him in her life. She wanted his heart and no one else's. No one else had made her feel that way.

Sherlock pulled away to look at her.

"Why?"

A fair question. She'd wondered that herself many times before, what it was about him that captured her. As strange as it sounded, she suspected it was that she saw a bit of herself in the man before her. He didn't associate with people very easily. His eccentric habits were a turn off for most, which only reinforced them. He preferred solitude to most company. In all he was a damaged soul simply trying to avoid the pain that tends to come with living. In her own way, these attributes applied to Molly as well. She just happened to wear her heart on her sleeve a smidge more than he.

Sherlock was clearly unable to comprehend why anyone would bother to care for him. How could she make him understand?

Looking at him now the answer came quite readily. Without considering it, Molly leaned in and delicately touched her lips to his. It was probably the one time she wished he wouldn't sit still but he made no action, either to reciprocate or break away. She pressed more firmly this time, bringing her entire body closer.

Just as it seemed he would participate, Sherlock jerked back sharply, holding Molly at arms length.

"I should go." He said in a gravelly voice. His eyes betrayed his discomfort, looking anywhere but at her.

Molly mentally flogged herself for being so impetuous. Of course she shouldn't have kissed him! He may have let his guard down for a time but these were special circumstances, it wasn't an invitation. And he may have kissed her first but that hadn't actually meant anything, most certainly not to him. So stupid!

"I'm sorry." she shrugged helplessly, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands.

His distress momentarily forgotten, Sherlock's mouth turned up in a hint of a smirk as he regained himself through amusement. He posed the very same question Molly had in that similar situation weeks ago.

"Are you?"

Molly glanced at him with irritation. The man had no sense of timing. Not that he cared...

She chose to ignore the jab.

"I should never have done that." She conceded.

"Why not?"

Molly's brow furrowed. Was he serious? Had she only imagined that touch of vulnerability the question held or was it authentic? God, he was such a constant challenge!

"Well," she risked stepping closer to him as her voice was losing strength in her constricted throat, "I just thought...with everything...look, it was wholly inappropriate and I-"

Sherlock smashed his mouth against hers with such force that they both stumbled backwards until Molly found purchase against one of the hard metal worktops behind her. She barely noticed bumping into it. All she cared to acknowledge was that Sherlock Holmes was kissing her, kissing her like he meant it. It wasn't like the first time he'd done so. Even though she thought that had been pretty wonderful in it's own right, it had been selfishly motivated. This was completely different. It was as though something or someone had lit a fire under Sherlock and he couldn't get enough. His kisses were hungry and raw. He tugged her bottom lip, running his fingers up her spine and to her neck where his hands cupped her face. Molly gripped his hair, practically unable to breath but not particularly concerned with that at the moment. He finally gave her air as he peppered kisses across her face to the crevice behind her ear where he lingered.

"You were leaving." She choked out, praying his mouth would never stop it's ministrations on her throat.

"Don't be ridiculous." He murmured, finding her lips once more.

The intensity she had expected of him the first time, that he had obviously been holding back, was now unbridled. He grabbed her hips, lifting her onto the table top.

As he grasped her thigh to shift closer, he nudged her into a tray of instruments beside her and it fell to the floor. The resulting crash caused them both to jump and break the kiss to look at the offensive items. Clearly in no immediate danger, they turned back to one another, both winded.

"Perhaps I really should go." Sherlock managed to say, resting his forehead against hers. She pressed back against him, stroking his hair as she willed her limbs to stop shaking. He was right, this probably wasn't the best time and place to begin...whatever this was.

"Okay." Even her voice trembled.

When she was able she sat up, inhaling deeply to steady herself.

"Right." She said, a little stronger.

Unsure what else to do from here, she brushed his curls with her fingers to a tidier placement, smoothed the wrinkles in his shirt and fixed his collar to make him more presentable whilst trying not to notice him watching her intently. She finished with his jacket and gave a satisfied bob of her head. It had all been for naught as he yanked her to him for a last and explosive kiss.

And it ended abruptly as a smack to the face. Leaving Molly stunned in position, Sherlock wordlessly walked away and out of the room without looking back.

When she returned to her senses, Molly dropped her arms from where they had been holding Sherlock and pursed her lips, nodding.

"Seems about right." She said to the empty room.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: OMG finally! I thought I might never finish. I appreciate everyone's patience and I hope the length of this makes up for the wait.**

**This chapter feels rambling to me but it should explain some things and bring Sherlock back into character a bit. Or perhaps not. I'm so afraid I hit my peak in chapter 2 lol!**

**Please forgive my somewhat unimaginative 'pool scene'. I know the real writers will have come up with something far more clever though why I keep comparing myself to real writers I really don't know. Let me know what _you_ think! As always good and bad (as in constructive not cruel) criticisms are greatly welcomed. Thanks all!**

**XXXXXXX**

He'd been in a similar situation in Afghanistan. A grenade had gone off near his position, the blast sending him flying and knocking him out cold. He'd woken in an army hospital, disoriented, memory cloudy as to how he'd arrived there. It hadn't lasted long and other than a bump to the head and a broken bone or two he'd faired quite well. Still it had been none the less unpleasant.

Waking up now he was brought back to that moment, made worse by the fact that he couldn't seem to get any part of his body to move. This included his eyes, which refused to open. Training overcame panic though; medical, military and the education that comes with working alongside the world's only consulting detective. He used the one thing currently available to him – his hearing. He noted the steady (though rapid) beat of what must be a heart monitor next to his bed, the sound of a woman's voice paging Doctor...well, a doctor anyhow. He heard an ambulance siren sounding from outside.

He deduced he was in a hospital and reasoned that whatever the cause for it, he was probably in the best possible place to be cared for. This knowledge calmed him further and he felt his breathing slow. _This_ made him realize that he _was_ breathing, and on his own, so he couldn't be paralyzed; at least not as completely as he felt. No doubt then it was the lingering effects of sedation and he had no choice but to wait it out. Still, he was without answers as to why he was there.

He didn't wonder for long. Memories of the night previous came to him in an assault of mental images: the men in the car, the decrepit building, a gun pointed at Sherlock...

He'd been shot. The sharp pain in his chest confirmed that fact. But even sharper was the memory of Sherlock's face when he'd watched John fall.

_There was little that could really scare John off with all he'd seen on his tour of duty and as a doctor. It wasn't that he had no response whatsoever. When faced with a threat he'd feel the unavoidable rush of adrenaline, fear, panic. Long ago he'd found that giving over to them dispelled the feelings much faster than fighting them. So he would allow the sensations to engulf him then use them to his advantage, always finding the eye of the storm as it were to do what needed to be done. But the look on Sherlock's face in that moment was enough to make him very nearly forget he had a bullet in his stomach. Even in battle he'd never seen rage as what transformed Sherlock's features. It was so powerful, like it was tangible. John could practically feel it emanating from his friend._

_Without preamble, without any warning at all in fact, Sherlock swept toward the shooter and struck the man upside the head so hard that he went down and stayed there. John almost felt sorry for the poor bastard who didn't seem to be moving at all now._

_Sherlock didn't stop there, though. With unexpected strength from his deceptively lanky limbs, he grabbed the shooter by the collar, flipped him over and began raining blow after blow upon the already subdued man's face For a time all John could do was watch in horror. But when he saw Sherlock spot the man's gun lying just within reach and then make a move to grab it, John summoned the strength to shout out a raspy but solid, "Sherlock!" He wasn't about to sit by and allow his friend to commit murder, certainly not on his behalf._

_The detective started at the sound of his name. Turning to John, he looked animalistic, his eyes cold. They met John's wide, fearful ones and he stilled. Then with a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock returned to himself._

_He suddenly dropped the shooter to the ground, staggering backward. His hand absently gripped his hair as he clearly struggled to process his own unhinged actions._

_A stab of pain ran through John and before he could stop it he let out an anguished cry. Sherlock's head whipped toward him again and he rushed to his side._

The rest was a jumble of Sherlock's voice and ambulance lights. He couldn't recall the ride to the hospital. He wondered how long he'd been out.

Someone to his right cleared their throat, bringing his attention back to the room with a jolt. If he could've, John would probably have jumped a mile at the noise. He knew instantly who it was of course, even from that brief sound.

What was Sherlock doing here? His friend was most certainly not the type to sit by someone's hospital bed. In the past he'd even mockingly suggested that John do the same for others in hospital since he was such a bleeding heart. So what was keeping him here now?

Before he could arrive at an answer he heard Sherlock stand and approach the bed. He felt thin fingers encircle his right wrist. Was he checking for a pulse? A rather strange endeavour seeing as the heart monitor was sounding every beat of his still working heart. That seemed to be his purpose at first but the fingers soon relaxed, lowering John's wrist back to the bed without letting go.

"So I suppose this is you teaching me a lesson, is it?" Sherlock spoke, his voice sounding like he was catching a cold, not at all carrying its usual arrogance or condescension. John had never heard him so exhausted.

"You think I gamble with your life and so this is what? Pay back?"

John wished he could smack him. Only Sherlock would believe his getting shot was an act of retribution.

XXXXXXX

It was ludicrous. Sherlock could scarcely believe he was attempting to talk to his unconscious friend. A nurse had told him it might help both of them. If he hadn't been so distracted he probably would have brought her down a peg or two for making such an asinine suggestion. Instead here he was, so inexplicably desperate to hear any words from John that he was stooping to what felt like a new personal low. He knew it was pointless, knew it wouldn't achieve anything but still he was doing it. Speaking to an unconscious man. Now he'd started he couldn't stop.

"I told you I did what I did to _save_ you. What _you're_ doing is just spiteful. Not to mention ungrateful. I save your life for you to practically throw it away..." He trailed off. Watching John's face for the slightest acknowledgement, Sherlock recalled the night at the pool.

_There was nothing on the USB drive. Moriarty would know this of course. He would no doubt believe that Sherlock was trying to trick him – that he wanted Moriarty to think he had the missile plans and would attempt to use the empty drive as leverage. What he didn't realize was Sherlock knew full well that he couldn't care less about the missile plans, that they were merely a misdirect. Though he pretended otherwise, it was far from surprising to Sherlock when Moriarty tossed them away, He knew what this was truly about._

_Sherlock was good – too good. He'd piqued Moriarty's interest all those years ago when little Carl Powers was murdered at this very pool and the criminal had carried a torch since. He'd been put to the test. Sherlock's most memorable cases with John had been the machinations of Moriarty's enterprise and he had solved them both, getting him uncomfortably close to the evil genius and infringing on his hard efforts. So Moriarty had next arranged the 'game' for him. He'd wanted to see if Sherlock could be thrown and just what was the detective's Achille's heel. He'd challenged him with a hysterical woman, a male youth with plenty of life ahead of him, a blind and bed ridden old lady and an innocent, helpless little boy. Sherlock had saved all but one of the victims. Even the death of the elderly woman had barely slowed him down._

_When there was a delay in the taking of a final hostage, Sherlock soon deduced what Moriarty had in mind. He'd almost not done it, allowing John to leave the house that night and knowing the oblivious fool probably wouldn't make it to Sarah's. But it was for the sake of the game and he couldn't stop when he was so close to gaining advantage. He'd pushed doubt aside and done what was needed. _

_He deserved an award for this performance. If he dropped his act for a second Moriarty would know. John, ever the valiant hero, nearly mucked things up trying to save Sherlock from harm. He saw John's face fall as his companion held Moriarty by the neck and he realized he must have a red dot aimed at himself too. His jaw clenched. He didn't like the idea of a gun trained at his head, his brain, his livelihood, even if he knew the gunman would not cause him harm. He told himself that at least Mycroft's men were playing their part well._

_It wasn't easy for him to pretend he had been bested, mainly because he never had been. He thought smugly that if Moriarty were truly brilliant, he would know that since Sherlock had arranged this meeting, he would never create a situation he couldn't win or from which he didn't have multiple avenues of escape. Clearly the man's hubris was clouding his foresight and he believed taking John was a masterful move against his opponent._

_After much posturing and threatening that Sherlock supposed was meant to frighten him greatly, Moriarty left. But it had been too simple. They weren't done yet. Sherlock knew they only had minutes, rushing over to John and ripping off the vest with urgency incase Moriarty behaved precipitously. Then he began pacing, debating whether or not to divulge the details of his plan._

_But before anything, Moriarty re-entered. The game resumed._

_So there they stood in a stand-off, neither blinking, each completely confident they had the upper hand. Sherlock decided the time was now. He glanced at John, trying to convey that he should simply sit tight, unsure if he understood. He could only hope the nod in response meant he followed. Sherlock lowered the gun._

"_Well," he said loudly, "you were right _Jim_. This has been a rousing game and I too enjoyed it. I'm afraid though that you've already lost. From the very moment you took an interest in me."_

_Moriarty gave him a calculating stare._

"_And how've you drawn that conclusion my dear? I believe it's you who is surrounded by over a dozen sharp shooters ready to take you out at a second's notice. You can shoot the bomb but I don't think you can bring yourself to take the life of your darling pet. Your only options should you continue to cross me are death or," he giggled obnoxiously, nodding at the bouncing laser points, "death!"_

_Sherlock's mouth quirked up. He looked again to John speaking as though they were alone._

"_How've I done, doctor?" He asked._

_John looked confused, his mouth agape._

"_What?"_

_A genuine smile spread across Sherlock's face, so pleased was he by his own cleverness._

"_I am a damned fine actor."_

_He returned his attention to the mad man before him._

"_I choose my third option."_

_Moriarty studied Sherlock before talking, hesitance betraying the fact that he was concerned Sherlock had a plan he wasn't prepared for. He shook his head._

"_You're bluffing. You have no other option."_

"_You're sure of that?" Sherlock asked with a slight tilt of his head. He raised two fingers in the air and watched the red dots dancing on John's body whip over one by one to land on Moriarty, followed by the one's on himself. It took the psychopath a second longer to notice as well. When he did he sobered immediately, glaring at Sherlock._

"_No." He growled._

"_Just so." Sherlock was positively giddy. "You know I think this may be one of those rare moments I can appreciate my relation to Mycroft." He quipped to John, who's head was whipping between both men as though at this point he wasn't sure who was more insane._

_'So." Moriarty sneered. "Big brother took out my snipers did he?"_

_Sherlock beamed._

"_No need. You've a penchant for sharp shooters, I made sure you hired the right ones, as provided by Mycroft. You gave me plenty of time to do so."_

"_I see. And the drive?"_

"_Empty of course."_

"_Of course."_

"_Which you knew already."_

"_Of course."_

_Moriarty bowed his head, still eyeing Sherlock with scrutiny. He made a sound in his throat as if deciding what to do next. Then suddenly he gave a sharp clap and lit up with delight to match Sherlock's._

"_Oh you're good!" He gushed. "Bravo, Holmes, bravo indeed! I knew I found you fascinating for a reason."_

_Sherlock feigned a flicker of unease, concealing his confidence that Moriarty was behaving just as expected. It was time to bring it home._

"_Here's how this is going to work." He declared. "I won't bother to keep you until authorities arrive since you'd probably slip away before they could put you in a squad car. So you're free to go. Leave, now, without incident and I won't have them," he indicated the red dots, "decorate you with bullets. Come after the doctor again, or anyone else of my acquaintance and...well...now you've had a glimpse of what _I've_ got going on, I think you know it wouldn't be worth the trouble. Are we clear?"_

_Moriarty replied with a mock pout._

"_Hardly seems fair, what's in it for me? You'll still be in my way."_

_Sherlock shrugged._

"_So try harder."_

_Moriarty gave him an admiring grin._

"_Brilliant. Got every angle covered then, have you?"_

"_Always."_

"_Except one."_

_All mirth disappeared from Moriarty's visage and he reached behind himself to pull out a gun of his own from beneath his jacket. 'That's what you think' Sherlock thought, while outwardly adopting an expression of shock._

_Moriarty pointed his gun at the bomb just as Sherlock had. The detective would have rolled his eyes if it wouldn't have exposed his facade. He'd hoped for better from his self-appointed playmate and was almost bored by his own brilliance at being able to predict a person's behaviour._

_No matter. Point was, he was ready._

"_Third option, eh lads?" Moriarty winked. "Cheera!"_

_The gun went off and the bomb ignited. In that instant, Sherlock took John by the arm and pulled him into a sprint to the other end of the pool, covering a remarkable distance in such a short time. It was partly adrenaline-fuelled speed and partly luck (or so it seemed) that they weren't more seriously hurt. _

_Not to say that the bomb didn't achieve a respectable amount of damage. Chaos rained down around them, windows shattering, concrete cracking and chipping, water everywhere. The blast sent them both crashing into a wall and then the floor where they remained until calm was restored._

_Moriarty was gone._

_When the dust and debris finally settled, Sherlock popped back up with a whoop of exhilaration, jumping to his feet._

"_I say, that was certainly close, wasn't it John?"_

_Silence._

"_John?" Sherlock scanned around for the doctor._

"_Here." Came a wary reply. _

"_Ah." Sherlock smiled, spotting John several feet away and shuffling through the destruction to offer him a hand._

"_All right?" He enquired, looking John over as he stood._

"_Peachy."_

_Sherlock smacked him cordially on the back._

"_Splendid. Right then, we should be off. Lestrade will most likely be here soon and I'd like to avoid him as long as possible. Dinner perhaps? You were going to eat at Sarah's weren't you? How about Portuguese food instead? I know a place that's halfway decent..."_

"_Sherlock!" John was slack-jawed with exasperation as his friend made his way to the exit. The younger man looked back over his shoulder, confused. _

"_What is it?"_

"_What is it!" John's shout echoed in the demolished pool room. "We've just nearly been blown to bits! We've survived by the grace of God, that – _thing_ has managed to get away and you're suggesting we grab a bite?"_

_Sherlock mulled this over._

"_Not good?"_

"_Oh for the love of-!"_

_Sherlock sighed impatiently._

"_Really John, there's no need to be so dramatic. As I said the gunmen belong to Mycroft, they never posed a threat."_

_John was seething, his arms stiff and hands fisted._

"_And how the hell was I supposed to know that? And what about the bloody bomb!"_

_Sherlock swatted the air dismissively._

"_Oh another product of Mycroft's. A lot of sound and fury but relatively harmless."_

"_It's brought half the building down!"_

"_It _is_ still a bomb."_

"_Which was strapped to _me_!"_

"_Which is why I removed it _from_ you obviously, do keep up John."_

_He made to leave again, but John was far from finished._

"_You couldn't tell me any of this? You knew Moriarty's plans, made plans of your own and you didn't even warn me. You threw me out as bait! And some plan it was too, run and hope we don't explode?"_

_Sherlock grimaced._

"_Don't be crude. I had to improvise a bit, I knew he'd make an attempt I just wasn't entirely sure how. Besides, I could hardly tell _you_ anything, you're a terrible liar."_

"_Excuse me?"_

"_Look." Sherlock was becoming edgy, wanting to get away from here before they couldn't. "I needed to see the __man. I had to meet Moriarty face to face and I knew this was the only way. So I grudgingly turned to Mycroft, who agreed to assist me. His lot has been onto Moriarty for some time for obvious reasons. This was the perfect way to draw him out. If I'd let you in on it, you would've unintentionally given something away and your life would be at risk along with the whole operation."_

_That must have been insulting as John's face became steadily more flushed with anger._

"_Well, a lot of good that did! He's escaped anyway incase you haven't noticed!"_

"_True but the important thing is he was here, in person. I've upped the ante and he won't be able to stand it. I told him to try harder and that's exactly what he'll do. He'll want to be sure he misses nothing from now on. He won't trust just anyone to carry out his little games anymore, may even be liable to get his own hands dirty. He'll be so desperate to show me up the he'll be forced to expose himself. I'm slowly taking him away from his element of hiding behind hired hands. We just have to wait for him to slip up John. They always do, no matter how talented. When he does, we'll be there."_

_John was unreceptive to his speech._

"_In the meantime, while you two have your pissing contest, innocent people get hurt." He pointed to himself. "Exhibit A!"_

"_I am sorry for that," Sherlock said, actually appearing to be slightly remorseful. "but if we stop him, he won't be able to harm anyone again."_

_He stared hard at the doctor, daring him to refute such logic. Before John could say a word, a police siren sounded outside._

"_Damn it." Sherlock cursed, turning to the noise. "He'll have us stuck in questioning for hours..."_

As it happened, Lestrade let them go within an hour after assurances from Sherlock that John was perfectly capable of treating their injuries as well as a promise that they'd be at the station the next day to give their full account of events. John had, of course, gone alone.

His colleague had recovered from the ordeal remarkably well, Sherlock found. He observed a few sleepless nights, a broken dinner plate that had slipped from shaky hands, and the purchase of a new winter coat in the days that followed. But a month or so later, John had returned to normal. Sherlock never failed to be impressed by the resilience hidden beneath the common exterior. The man had been shot twice and was still going.

If only he would say something...

"Fine," Sherlock said with annoyance. "Don't speak then. I can hold a conversation with my skull, this can't be much different."

The topic he wished to discuss was out of his mouth in one breath.

"I kissed Molly again, here in hospital, just minutes ago. Well, when I say kissed..."

He shifted in his seat, remembering.

_As he walked the hall to the mortuary, his irritation rose with every step. Something was wrong with him, more than the stress of the evening, and it was her fault. He'd had himself in perfect control until Molly had showed up. What business did she have being there? Who was she to try and offer him words of comfort? She had no right to make him feel guilty over her understanding when he'd always been such a brute – brutish in the name of science and deduction, mind you, but that never seemed to matter to normal sorts. Point was she must be toying with him for reasons unknown._

_How he hated not knowing._

_At least he knew he would figure out her game eventually._

_He was held up at the door when he arrived at her lab. Molly was darting about in a fretful fashion, visibly tense. He noticed a tear roll down her cheek and she absentmindedly wiped it away. It was much like the first night he'd seen her here after the incident with Moriarty. That time he'd behaved as he'd seen people do in those situations, asking how she'd been holding up. She'd kept working, merely replying, "Fine thanks. Whatever it is you're after it'll have to wait, I have a job to do."_

_Her voice had wavered but she hadn't once looked up at him._

_She'd been that way with him ever since and ever since he'd been struggling to discern why._

_Tonight, however, Sherlock would not be dismissed so easily. Tonight she had pushed him too far and he was going to find out exactly what she was playing at._

_He began by disarming her with gratitude and was a touch unsettled by how much he actually meant it all. Nevertheless, when she was adequately flustered he moved in for the kill, hitting her with the questions he truly intended. She had clearly learned to hate him these past few weeks for numerous reasons. So why, after so much avoidance and pushing him away, had she this sudden change of heart? Why be so generous to him? Not to mention, from the moment they'd met she'd been turning the other cheek. Had it always been a farce? He needed to hear her say the words, that she hated him and only meant to hurt him. Then this would all make sense._

_She told him the exact opposite._

_Even worse, he believed her._

_He moved in close, searching her over for signs of deception. All he achieved was the pleasant numbness her nearness provided him. He tried to keep clarity through analysis, noting that she seemed rather frightened of him. This observation made her laugh and his stomach drop. _

_She wasn't out to destroy him. No matter who he was around her, she'd only ever cared about him._

_He wanted to resent her for the ever strengthening feelings of ruefulness he could no longer deny. He hoped having her as close as possible would ease his discomfort. In his own way he tried to tell her not to settle for himself, that she deserved better. It was the most charitable thing he'd done in his life. But she would not be discouraged. She wanted him and he couldn't fathom why. She showed him with a kiss._

_It was illumination._

_John was his muse, his back up, his guardian angel forever at his side. _

_Molly? She was his sanctuary. He needed her. _

_Was that what she meant? Did she feel the same? His heart leapt into his throat and he had to pull away, get away._

_Then she apologized. He may have been out of sorts but irony was never lost on him. As she went on it sounded as though she regretted her actions. He found himself disappointed by that. Perhaps if he kissed her again she would see it wasn't a complete mistake; and really what was one more little kiss?_

_Not a mistake exactly, more a slight miscalculation. Desire welled up unbidden and spilled out through his actions. Before he'd even considered it they were up against a work top and entwined like their lives depended on it._

_When they were rudely interrupted his impulse to leave resurfaced but for different reasons. If they didn't stop they might end up in a compromising position he'd rather no one would stumble upon. That and he had to admit it was a tad disrespectful to his injured companion._

_He really had meant to leave, but Molly's fussing with his hair and clothes was so damned endearing he was struck by another surge of wanting. He yanked himself away from this kiss by sheer will and made haste before it could happen again._

"I know, I know," Sherlock said as though John had tried to protest, "but I'm telling you it's not my fault. Perhaps Molly injected me with something without my knowledge or spiked my coffee."

He became defensive though John had yet to contribute.

"It's not paranoia. What other answer is there to all the facts? I've never wasted time on the frivolity of romantic or sexual exploits. You know that's not my area, and for good reason. It's a pointless endeavour and my energies are far better spent. Anyway, if I had suddenly decided to start, why would I begin with Molly of all people?"

He paused.

"That may be harsh but that doesn't mean it's without merit. The woman is plain looking, _was _painfully shy until recently and is of only moderate intelligence. She encompasses nothing I myself would label as even remotely stimulating."

His words hung in the air as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the bed. He scoffed gently.

"Here you are lying wounded...and she's all I can talk about."

Sherlock fixated on John's face.

"You know," he said in a grim tone, "you are...absolute rubbish at faking unconsciousness."

"Well maybe if you weren't holding my wrist so tightly I'd do better," John retorted, opening his eyes to look at Sherlock. "Are you trying to sever my hand?"

"Sorry."

Sherlock loosened his grip, still not letting go.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked John.

"Hospital. St. Bart's."

"Correct. Do you know why you're here?"

"Someone tried to use you for target practice and I got in the way?"

"In a manner of speaking." Sherlock raised an accusatory eyebrow. "You're awfully chipper for someone who's just taken a bullet."

"Sherlock I work with you. Getting shot is only the tip of the iceberg. It's almost a welcome break."

"_Très drôle_." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why _were_ you pretending to be out?"

"Well you were finally being honest with yourself, I wasn't about to spoil that."

"Please that was all for your benefit, I knew you were listening."

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did."

"Didn't."

"Did...eventually."

"That's not – oh, I'm too tired for this and it can't possibly be healthy in my condition. Find a nurse, will you? They'll want to know I'm awake."

Unable to help himself, Sherlock grinned at that.

"You're awake."

John chuckled at his friend's warm expression.

"That I am. Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Wrist."

"Right."


End file.
